Archive for the 'humiliation' Category


August 13, 2009

I’ve never been a particularly confident person. I was a cute kid until about the age of seven, then experienced thirteen years of awkwardness. Nerdy and scrawny with a big head, bad  eyes, bad nose, bad skin, and worse clothes.  I hated having my picture taken. And I was severely, painfully shy. New situations, new people would make my heart race,  my palms sweat. I was essentially a loner for many years.

I am still very uncomfortable being the center of attention. Even positive attention makes me squirm inside. I’m certain, deep down inside, that the person complimenting me is wrong, that they will soon enough see me for who and what I really am.

So I was a late bloomer. It’s only been in the past several years that I’ve become somewhat more comfortable with myself. I’ve learned to fake confidence to some degree too. And it helps that people tend to mistake shyness for arrogance.

This latest thing has been a real blow to my self-esteem.

It would be easier to understand past romantic failures if the other person had not insisted that I was attractive, smart, funny, fun to be with, good in bed, or whatever.  I’ve been told that I’m different, special, that I must have men lining up to be with me.

And then I get dumped. Or rejected. Or otherwise treated as something expendable. Just another girl. Not important to anyone.

That’s what’s hardest for me to understand. If I’m so great, then why are they able to leave so easily? Why do they hesitate so long to commit? Why do they get over me so quickly?

The only thing I can conclude is that there’s something wrong with me. I must not make much of an impression. And they must’ve all been lying to me. Every good thing they said about me was a lie, a trick to get my defenses down.

And all the negative thoughts that I’ve been trying to suppress for years are starting to resurface: I am not worthy. It doesn’t matter how I act, or look, or what I say. It doesn’t matter how hard I try. I’ll never be good enough for anyone. I’ll always be second.

The boy told me I made him feel things he’d never felt before, that he didn’t submit to just anyone, that I was special.

He was composing a Craigslist ad days after I ended things. He was writing ecstatically about submitting to his new Domme soon after.

And I’m here. But I’m not alone. I still have my old doubts and self-pity to keep me company. And a new, profound sense that things will always come to this.

Too close for comfort

August 11, 2009

I don’t like drama. I don’t like complications. I like things to be tidy and squared away into their own little cubbies.

One of the biggest problems with the thing that just ended is that it was really messy and awkward, a mash-up of this and that with duct tape and pieces falling off.

It started out being a casual, friendly sort of thing. Play and sex and conversation. I could dominate him and fuck him and send him on his way and not think too much about him for the rest of the week. This was easy and fun.

Then it started getting more intense. Constant e-mailing, all day, everyday. Random phone calls and texts. Etc., etc. It was around this time that he began insisting that being with me, being dominated by me, was not like being with/dominated by just anyone. I was special, unique. After awhile, I started to believe him, a little.

We even took a brief trip away together. It went OK, but there was a little meltdown on a certain train platform. I referred to our thing as a ‘relationship’ in a very tangential way. I’d barely finished my sentence when he took the cigarette out of his mouth and abruptly blurted out, “Yeah, and that’s why I don’t want a relationship.” He waved the cig around for emphasis. I remember staring at his hands, his shirt (I’m a lot shorter than he), and away.

He saw the look on my face and tried to retreat, lamely. For the first time in a long time, my eyes filled, my face burned. I was grateful for how still the day was, how cold. I turned away from him and tried to inconspicuously blink the tears away, to breathe steadily. I was stung by his casualness. It was how he said it that hurt me. The careless way he said it, how quickly and naturally the words came to him. A reflex: This is not a relationship.

I guess I’d started feeling as though the thing was more than just an ongoing play date. I guess  I’d finally been convinced by his constant refrain of how much I meant to him and how he felt like it was more than just the physical with us. I guess I mistook his tenderness and solicitousness as evidence of more than friendly feelings on his part. I guess I was wrong.

I felt played. I felt like an ass. I wondered why I’d taken a weekend to go away with him. Why I’d paid for half of a motel room. Why I’d met his friends. Why I was standing next to this guy. Why I was so gullible and stupid.

He sat next to me on the train and tried frantically to win me back. He begged me to talk to him. He hovered over me. He cried. I could hear him sniffling next to me as I stared out the window, feeling very detached from everything. I was tired. And I felt more alone sitting there next to him than I’d ever felt before.

We made up and had another five or so months together. But things were complicated. I was  trying to accommodate him and his fears and insecurities. It was this weird quasi-relationship. We weren’t monogamous, but we still didn’t date or sleep with other people. We still communicated constantly, but we only saw each other a few times a month. It got so fucked up at one point that I was actively encouraging him to meet new people. There was no future to ‘us’. He was too scared of getting serious with someone and getting hurt again. I thought he’d never try to work out his issues. I began trying to disentangle myself.

Sex became harder for me. I’ve always had difficulty orgasming from sex. The last time it was easy for me was when I was in a steady, long-term relationship. I guess I have to feel safe and comfortable with someone before I can come with them with any regularity. (That’s why one-offs don’t hold much appeal for me anymore.)

And there were many times when I felt like something wasn’t right, that I was still being played somehow. I’d get depressed, stop responding to all of his e-mails (just once rather than many times over the course of the day), try to step back and reassess. But he’d panic, leave me sad voicemails, multiple texts, frantic e-mails. I started to feel trapped.

After months of this, I began feeling less and less of a desire to dominate him, more disconnected from my sexuality. I’d think back to the beginning of things with wistfulness. It had been electric then, and easy…when I’d kept my distance from him. Now I could barely muster any enthusiasm for some of my favorite activities. What’s the point?, I’d think. I didn’t ‘feel’ dominant anymore. I wasn’t in control and it was starting to show.

The relationship (he finally deigned to term it that, though I began just calling it “our thing”) was becoming a source of anxiety, stress, and sadness. The bad stuff started to outweigh the good. He’d leave and instead of forgetting about him, I’d feel depressed. Meanwhile, he was continuing his life as usual, going to play parties and hanging out with his many friends. It all started to feel very unfair to me.

So I ended things.

It was painful. I cried a lot. I was angry. He just accepted it. But eventually, I started to get over it. I was even starting to think that perhaps I hadn’t given him enough of a chance, that maybe something could be salvaged.

And then I found out he is now owned.

Barely three weeks out and he’s already owned. He even sent me an e-mail to reassure me that his current thing hadn’t been going on while we were together. (Like it fucking matters now.) He said it was “just a D/s relationship.” Then I read him describing how she made him feel, how she controlled him. I saw pictures. It was worse than finding out that he’d been sleeping around. And that’s when I knew he had been playing me all along.

All that talk about how I was unique, that he didn’t submit to just anyone, that he was petrified by commitment of any kind. Bullshit. All of it. And I fell for it. I wanted to feel special, and I wanted to feel like I was rescuing him or something like that. I was an easy mark, I see now. He had his fun, worked out his issues with me playing the therapist, then found himself a new Domme as soon as I was out.

Something similar happened with another guy I’ve been with. Same sort of tortured, sensitive fellow with baggage and relationship issues. Same toying with me (in retrospect). And he even started dating someone seriously after finishing with me.

It’s going to take me a very, very long time before I’m ever going to allow myself to get close to another person again.

My super romantic, sexy, perfect Valentine’s Day weekend

February 23, 2009

The boy was swigging Pepto due to the queasiness that his meds were inducing. And despite the Percocet, he was still in some pain, so we had to go easy on the acrobatics. I stuck to light bondage with the handy-dandy Under Bed Restraint System (unfortunately, my bed doesn’t have a headboard or anything else to attach restraints to) and a little sensation play with my brand new Wartenberg pinwheel, which is a heckuva lot sharper and more cruel-looking in person than in pictures. (The boy lay very, very still when I gently ran it over his scrotum.)

Though there was no hitting, we still had a good tease and tickle session, followed by sex and snuggling. I adore snoozing with another person, especially when that person is as cuddly as the boy, but I did wake up at least twice in order to fight him for the covers. He always manages to steal the duvet and the quilt, then kick them both off the bed. He’s a deep sleeper and immune to pokes or shakes, so in a moment of sleepy, goosebumpy desperation, I tickled him. He giggled rather cutely in his sleep and relinquished his death grip on the duvet. (Fun, and it gave me some ideas….)

More cuddles and breakfast the next morning. French toast and excellent coffee ground in my awesome new burr grinder. (Pricey, but totally worth it if you’re at all picky about coffee.) I like hanging out in the kitchen watching him bustle around. Definitely one of my favorite things about having a service-oriented sub is being able to kick back and have someone bring me more coffee and be my footstool and whipping boy too.

Leisurely breakfast, lots of coffee, kinky talk. Me contemplating more sex before he had to go.  Just a nice Sunday morning, until…

People, I was literally in the middle of a sentence when my mother walked in. I was so stunned that I actually blurted out, “What the fuck is going on?” (Turned out, the front door was unlocked).

Thank god my mom’s grasp of English isn’t as good as her grasp of, say, filial wrongdoing.

Remember geometry? Well, one’s parents and one’s sex life are like parallel lines. They’re both there, neither is inherently better or more valued than the other, but in order to keep the universe from collapsing, they must remain at a distance until infinity. Infinity.

That metaphor didn’t make much sense. Sorry.

OK, what I’m trying to say is that when I saw my tiny, middle-aged Asian mother wander into my living room all sensible haircut and mom jeans as I sat there with my sub boy, talking about shoving things into his ass, my recurring fantasy of making him suck off dudes, and my hope that he’ll soon be healthy enough to take a really brutal beating, my kinky erection just went totally flaccid.

The boy’s first thought upon seeing my mother was, “Holy crap! There’s a butt plug on the bathroom sink!” Fortunately, the boy had the presence of mind to quickly and quietly run around hiding all the sex and kink gear while I stalled…er, talked to my mother at the door.

The boy left (no morning-after nookie, damn) and I spent a little while talking my parents down. Mom and Dad are pretty conservative and sex-before-marriage is unthinkable. Naturally, they were wondering who the tall white boy was and what he was doing in my apartment. Fortunately we were both fully clothed and sitting having a quiet conversation in the living room as opposed to say, playing, fucking or frolicking in the shower. Since it was the early afternoon, I was able to give them a plausible lie about how the boy is a friend who was over for brunch.

I’m a very private person (despite this blog) and don’t share details about my personal life, except on a need-to-know basis. And that’s with close friends. I don’t tell my parents anything about anything, though I’m sure they have their suspicions. At one point my father actually peered into my bedroom (messy but lacking any incriminating paraphanalia or puddles).


I was little annoyed at the unannounced visit, but one can’t stay annoyed at one’s parents in such a situation. Especially when they come bearing gifts like a huge sack of fruit, home-cooked food and a new sauce pot. My mother had also bought me a ridiculously dinky apron. I’ve been needing to get one, but was thinking of something that looks more like this:

She got me this:

Hmmm…not really my style, but it’s useful and brand new and I was raised by Mr. and Mrs. Frugal so I wouldn’t feel right chucking it unless it’s threadbare and full of holes. I think I’ll make the boy wear it the next time he makes me breakfast.

It was a decent weekend overall. It could’ve been worse. It could’ve been sooo much worse. Could’ve been better too, but fortunately, I don’t actually care all that much about holidays. But I will be sure to be even more careful about locking the front door from now on!